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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 9/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2326
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: There are times when you should stop pushing. Just ask the cat.
PRYING PANDORA
As they walked towards the cemetery gates, Christine offered her hand to Erik.
He looked at it, hesitant, and then took it almost shyly; she found herself smiling at his reluctance when he had been embracing her so fiercely only a few minutes before. Hand in hand they strolled back through the tall, silent ranks of tombstones, the carved angels guarding the graves taking on an entirely different aspect in the gloom; she almost thought that at any moment she would catch a glimpse of them moving from the corner of her eye. Hulking mausoleums, the names of generations of the same family etched into their stone, stood like sentinels along the main avenue; old and crumbled crosses, crucifixes with the body of the Saviour broken and battered by the years, only served to remind visitors more forcefully that eventually every living thing came to death and decay. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her and taking a firmer grip upon Erik’s fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asked, glancing down at her, and she nodded, grateful for his presence. It was strange how she now looked to him for reassurance after the terror she had felt when he appeared in this very spot not so long ago. Things had changed so much! She had found the man behind the monster indeed.
Gradually, Christine became aware that the chapel bell was steadily tolling, its mournful sound muffled by the night. A few dark shapes in the distance, the glow of lanterns bobbing in their midst, resolved themselves as they neared into a funeral cortege; she could just make out the glass-sided hearse waiting a few yards behind, the horses tossing their heads, as the pallbearers carried the coffin, their steps slow and respectful, their bare heads bowed. Gently Erik drew her to one side as they passed, removing his hat once more; Christine crossed herself instinctively, whispering a prayer for the departed and remembering her first sight of her father’s casket as it waited in the tiny parlour of their apartment, a single spray of flowers adorning the lid. It had seemed such a small wooden box, barely long enough to fit his tall, gangling frame. She watched as the mourners followed the coffin: a couple, the woman, her face obscured by a thick net veil, weeping into a handkerchief, the man’s face a stoic mask of grief, walked directly behind, and at their heels was a much older lady holding the hand of a girl who could be no more than six or seven. The child gazed directly ahead, her little face pale; she looked so small in her black dress and boots, her blonde plaits luminous in the lamplight. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she made no attempt to brush them away; Christine felt a sob well in her own throat and she must have made a sound for the girl’s head turned to look at her. Wide-eyed, she stared at the odd couple standing on the sidelines, her mouth opening in wonder as her gaze took in Erik, who Christine realised must look like something from another world in his heavy, glittering cloak, his mask gleaming like a half-moon for a second before he quickly turned his face away. A moment later the woman walking with her tugged on her hand to regain her attention and the procession made its slow way past them, gradually disappearing into the darkness.
“She’s so young,” Christine said sadly when the cortege had gone. “How will she bear her loss?”
“She is fortunate: she has family. I just hope that they will be able to comfort and sustain her.” Erik replaced his hat with a smooth, practised movement, tugging down the brim. “I think it is time we went home; the night air is not good for your voice.”
“It hardly matters; I have no reason to sing at present.”
He turned incredulous eyes upon her. “The inability to play is no excuse for ruining your instrument! It is high time we resumed your lessons; I have not invested so much time in your tuition only to see you fall out of practise within a few months.”
Privately, though she longed to sing again, Christine doubted that there would be much point in Erik guiding her to even greater heights if she was doomed to spend her days listening to young ladies plunk out simple tunes on the piano. He would not like it, but a little investigation on her part had revealed that a career as a music teacher was probably the only one left open to her if she wished to remain respectable. She could not accept his assistance for much longer lest she be thought of as a kept woman; her landlady had already commented on her continued source of income since the closure of the Opera and Christine could tell exactly what she was thinking.
“I was the only one,” she remarked as he handed her into the four-wheeler which had waited patiently outside the gates for them. “At Papa’s funeral, I mean. I was the only mourner. He had so many supposed friends, yet none of them came to see him laid to rest, or even sent flowers. They were happy enough to take his money, but not one came to say goodbye.”
“The world is full of such parasites,” Erik replied curtly as he shut the door and rapped on the roof to tell the driver to move off. “Fair-weather friends are never to be found when actually needed.”
“I would hate to think that my friends cared so little about me that they would allow me to make my final journey alone.”
It was dark in the cab, but she thought she saw the visible side of his mouth curl upwards. “That would never happen, Christine.”
She returned his smile, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the music of the carriage wheels on the road as they were driven by the steady clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves. Christine sleepily rested her head against the squabs, her eyes following the lights from the streets outside as they played across Erik’s face, a sudden burst of illumination sending his profile into silhouette upon the window.
“I sometimes wonder what my life might have been like had my mother lived,” she mused. “Papa never really recovered from her death; every night up until the cancer took him he would talk to her, tell her how much he missed her. I doubt she would have allowed me to follow him across Europe as I did, waiting for him backstage while he performed, singing with him in the days when we travelled from fair to fair; I might never have come to Paris at all.”
“Did your mother believe in your father’s gift?” Erik asked, his mismatched gaze flicking across to her.
“He said that she did, but before I was born he was still playing at small venues in Stockholm, returning to the country in the summer to tour the towns and villages. My mother was never strong, you see; there was another child, a little boy, but he died after just two weeks and Mama was so ill that the doctors told Papa they should not try again if she wanted to live.” Christine twisted her hands together in her lap, remembering the tiny gravestone in Uppsala beside her mother’s and thinking of Stefan, the older brother she had never known. “They wanted a child so desperately...”
“And they gained one, one of whom I am sure they would both be proud,” he told her firmly, moving across the carriage to sit beside her.
“But at what cost? I lived and she died – how is that fair? Papa named me after her, you know. She was called Christina. Forgive me for asking, but...” She took a deep breath. “What was your mother’s name?”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Angelique. Ironic, isn’t it, that an angel could give birth to a demon?”
“You’re not a demon, Erik,” Christine replied, “And she was no angel, not if she could be so cruel to her own son. You should know better than anyone that appearances can be deceptive.”
He inclined his head. “Touché, my dear. You are quite right.”
“Would you really not like to know what became of her?” As she spoke she felt him tense, the muscles in his arm contracting as it rested next to hers, his fingers curling instinctively into a fist. “She could be alive or dead; would it not make you easier in your mind to know which?”
“She is dead to me. That is all that matters,” he said, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice. “She has been dead to me since the moment I left her and that life behind.”
Christine knew that she was treading on thin ice, but she could not curb her curiosity. She loved this man, but there was still so much she did not know about him; he was considerably older than her, but he had given her just the merest hints of the years before he took up residence beneath the Opera House. She tried to imagine him as a child but could not. What had he been like as a young man, before he became the Phantom? Though there was the possibility she would discover things in his past that would be difficult to accept, she could not stop herself from asking the questions. “You say that my parents would be proud of me, but can you not think the same of yours; that they might be proud to see the fine man that you have become?”
Erik gave a humourless laugh, the sound harsh and uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, I am sure they would be overcome with pride to see me skulking in the cellars, locked in perpetual darkness. No doubt my dear mother would say it was all that I deserved; age has not improved my face and nor will the passing of further years.”
“You can’t know that - ”
“Christine.”
She stopped talking, obedient as ever to the tones of his voice, and this one could freeze the very air around them. The light shifted as the cab pulled up beneath the lamppost outside her apartment building and she nearly gulped at the anger she could see in the taught lines of his face, the sculpted scowl of the mask in harmony with his features. She had gone too far, but there was no way back now.
“Leave it, Christine, please. You do not know where your curiosity will lead you,” he told her, and she thought he looked so very tired for a moment, though it could just have been a trick of the light. “That chapter of my life has been closed for a long time now; I locked and bolted the door and no good can come from opening it once more. Do you understand?”
Silently she nodded, and he leapt gracefully from the cab, turning back to her with hand outstretched. Instinctively she moved towards him and he helped her step lightly onto the pavement with such practised courtesy that she could believe he had been handing young ladies in and out of carriages all his life. It only made her wonder all the more what had happened to him before they met; how could someone who claimed to have been feared and reviled by the world possibly have become such a gentleman?
“Would you like me to see you to your door?” he asked quietly, eyes searching her face.
Christine shook her head. “Someone might see you, and my landlady is asking enough questions as it is. I think I might have an early night. Will I see you tomorrow?” Her query was anxious, betraying the fear of his temper that still lurked within her.
“Of course, if you wish it,” he replied, sounding surprised that she should have to ask.
“Yes, I do. I always do. Erik, I’m sorry, I didn’t - ” she began but he pressed a long finger to her lips.
“We won’t speak of it again,” he said, and she could only nod again in response.
To her slight disappointment, aware that their driver was watching Erik kissed her hand instead of her cheek and climbed back inside the cab. He did not tell the man to move off immediately, and Christine knew that he would wait to see that she went inside and reached her apartment safely. With a sigh, she turned and walked quickly up the steps, cursing herself as she went. She should know by now not to probe too deeply into his past; memories of that morning when she snatched away his mask bubbled to the surface, showing her anew his fury, swiftly followed by despair that she should have discovered his secret. That magnificent voice, raised in the most terrible accusations, descending into hoarse sobs fit to break even the strongest heart, filled her ears once more.
Christine let herself into her home, wearily hanging up her cloak. There was so much she had still to learn about the realities of life. She was about to lock up when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside, passing her door once, then twice; opening it a crack she looked out, darting a gaze right and left, but could see no one.
“Erik?” she asked softly, half expecting his familiar shape to detach itself from the shadows.
Nothing happened. The lamp at the end of the passage flickered briefly as though caught in a draught, but there was no sign of anyone nearby. She waited, but the hall remained empty and so she shut the door again, drawing the bolts across, and just stood there for a moment, resting her forehead against the panels.
Perhaps it really was time for bed.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2326
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: There are times when you should stop pushing. Just ask the cat.
PRYING PANDORA
As they walked towards the cemetery gates, Christine offered her hand to Erik.
He looked at it, hesitant, and then took it almost shyly; she found herself smiling at his reluctance when he had been embracing her so fiercely only a few minutes before. Hand in hand they strolled back through the tall, silent ranks of tombstones, the carved angels guarding the graves taking on an entirely different aspect in the gloom; she almost thought that at any moment she would catch a glimpse of them moving from the corner of her eye. Hulking mausoleums, the names of generations of the same family etched into their stone, stood like sentinels along the main avenue; old and crumbled crosses, crucifixes with the body of the Saviour broken and battered by the years, only served to remind visitors more forcefully that eventually every living thing came to death and decay. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her and taking a firmer grip upon Erik’s fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asked, glancing down at her, and she nodded, grateful for his presence. It was strange how she now looked to him for reassurance after the terror she had felt when he appeared in this very spot not so long ago. Things had changed so much! She had found the man behind the monster indeed.
Gradually, Christine became aware that the chapel bell was steadily tolling, its mournful sound muffled by the night. A few dark shapes in the distance, the glow of lanterns bobbing in their midst, resolved themselves as they neared into a funeral cortege; she could just make out the glass-sided hearse waiting a few yards behind, the horses tossing their heads, as the pallbearers carried the coffin, their steps slow and respectful, their bare heads bowed. Gently Erik drew her to one side as they passed, removing his hat once more; Christine crossed herself instinctively, whispering a prayer for the departed and remembering her first sight of her father’s casket as it waited in the tiny parlour of their apartment, a single spray of flowers adorning the lid. It had seemed such a small wooden box, barely long enough to fit his tall, gangling frame. She watched as the mourners followed the coffin: a couple, the woman, her face obscured by a thick net veil, weeping into a handkerchief, the man’s face a stoic mask of grief, walked directly behind, and at their heels was a much older lady holding the hand of a girl who could be no more than six or seven. The child gazed directly ahead, her little face pale; she looked so small in her black dress and boots, her blonde plaits luminous in the lamplight. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she made no attempt to brush them away; Christine felt a sob well in her own throat and she must have made a sound for the girl’s head turned to look at her. Wide-eyed, she stared at the odd couple standing on the sidelines, her mouth opening in wonder as her gaze took in Erik, who Christine realised must look like something from another world in his heavy, glittering cloak, his mask gleaming like a half-moon for a second before he quickly turned his face away. A moment later the woman walking with her tugged on her hand to regain her attention and the procession made its slow way past them, gradually disappearing into the darkness.
“She’s so young,” Christine said sadly when the cortege had gone. “How will she bear her loss?”
“She is fortunate: she has family. I just hope that they will be able to comfort and sustain her.” Erik replaced his hat with a smooth, practised movement, tugging down the brim. “I think it is time we went home; the night air is not good for your voice.”
“It hardly matters; I have no reason to sing at present.”
He turned incredulous eyes upon her. “The inability to play is no excuse for ruining your instrument! It is high time we resumed your lessons; I have not invested so much time in your tuition only to see you fall out of practise within a few months.”
Privately, though she longed to sing again, Christine doubted that there would be much point in Erik guiding her to even greater heights if she was doomed to spend her days listening to young ladies plunk out simple tunes on the piano. He would not like it, but a little investigation on her part had revealed that a career as a music teacher was probably the only one left open to her if she wished to remain respectable. She could not accept his assistance for much longer lest she be thought of as a kept woman; her landlady had already commented on her continued source of income since the closure of the Opera and Christine could tell exactly what she was thinking.
“I was the only one,” she remarked as he handed her into the four-wheeler which had waited patiently outside the gates for them. “At Papa’s funeral, I mean. I was the only mourner. He had so many supposed friends, yet none of them came to see him laid to rest, or even sent flowers. They were happy enough to take his money, but not one came to say goodbye.”
“The world is full of such parasites,” Erik replied curtly as he shut the door and rapped on the roof to tell the driver to move off. “Fair-weather friends are never to be found when actually needed.”
“I would hate to think that my friends cared so little about me that they would allow me to make my final journey alone.”
It was dark in the cab, but she thought she saw the visible side of his mouth curl upwards. “That would never happen, Christine.”
She returned his smile, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the music of the carriage wheels on the road as they were driven by the steady clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves. Christine sleepily rested her head against the squabs, her eyes following the lights from the streets outside as they played across Erik’s face, a sudden burst of illumination sending his profile into silhouette upon the window.
“I sometimes wonder what my life might have been like had my mother lived,” she mused. “Papa never really recovered from her death; every night up until the cancer took him he would talk to her, tell her how much he missed her. I doubt she would have allowed me to follow him across Europe as I did, waiting for him backstage while he performed, singing with him in the days when we travelled from fair to fair; I might never have come to Paris at all.”
“Did your mother believe in your father’s gift?” Erik asked, his mismatched gaze flicking across to her.
“He said that she did, but before I was born he was still playing at small venues in Stockholm, returning to the country in the summer to tour the towns and villages. My mother was never strong, you see; there was another child, a little boy, but he died after just two weeks and Mama was so ill that the doctors told Papa they should not try again if she wanted to live.” Christine twisted her hands together in her lap, remembering the tiny gravestone in Uppsala beside her mother’s and thinking of Stefan, the older brother she had never known. “They wanted a child so desperately...”
“And they gained one, one of whom I am sure they would both be proud,” he told her firmly, moving across the carriage to sit beside her.
“But at what cost? I lived and she died – how is that fair? Papa named me after her, you know. She was called Christina. Forgive me for asking, but...” She took a deep breath. “What was your mother’s name?”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Angelique. Ironic, isn’t it, that an angel could give birth to a demon?”
“You’re not a demon, Erik,” Christine replied, “And she was no angel, not if she could be so cruel to her own son. You should know better than anyone that appearances can be deceptive.”
He inclined his head. “Touché, my dear. You are quite right.”
“Would you really not like to know what became of her?” As she spoke she felt him tense, the muscles in his arm contracting as it rested next to hers, his fingers curling instinctively into a fist. “She could be alive or dead; would it not make you easier in your mind to know which?”
“She is dead to me. That is all that matters,” he said, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice. “She has been dead to me since the moment I left her and that life behind.”
Christine knew that she was treading on thin ice, but she could not curb her curiosity. She loved this man, but there was still so much she did not know about him; he was considerably older than her, but he had given her just the merest hints of the years before he took up residence beneath the Opera House. She tried to imagine him as a child but could not. What had he been like as a young man, before he became the Phantom? Though there was the possibility she would discover things in his past that would be difficult to accept, she could not stop herself from asking the questions. “You say that my parents would be proud of me, but can you not think the same of yours; that they might be proud to see the fine man that you have become?”
Erik gave a humourless laugh, the sound harsh and uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, I am sure they would be overcome with pride to see me skulking in the cellars, locked in perpetual darkness. No doubt my dear mother would say it was all that I deserved; age has not improved my face and nor will the passing of further years.”
“You can’t know that - ”
“Christine.”
She stopped talking, obedient as ever to the tones of his voice, and this one could freeze the very air around them. The light shifted as the cab pulled up beneath the lamppost outside her apartment building and she nearly gulped at the anger she could see in the taught lines of his face, the sculpted scowl of the mask in harmony with his features. She had gone too far, but there was no way back now.
“Leave it, Christine, please. You do not know where your curiosity will lead you,” he told her, and she thought he looked so very tired for a moment, though it could just have been a trick of the light. “That chapter of my life has been closed for a long time now; I locked and bolted the door and no good can come from opening it once more. Do you understand?”
Silently she nodded, and he leapt gracefully from the cab, turning back to her with hand outstretched. Instinctively she moved towards him and he helped her step lightly onto the pavement with such practised courtesy that she could believe he had been handing young ladies in and out of carriages all his life. It only made her wonder all the more what had happened to him before they met; how could someone who claimed to have been feared and reviled by the world possibly have become such a gentleman?
“Would you like me to see you to your door?” he asked quietly, eyes searching her face.
Christine shook her head. “Someone might see you, and my landlady is asking enough questions as it is. I think I might have an early night. Will I see you tomorrow?” Her query was anxious, betraying the fear of his temper that still lurked within her.
“Of course, if you wish it,” he replied, sounding surprised that she should have to ask.
“Yes, I do. I always do. Erik, I’m sorry, I didn’t - ” she began but he pressed a long finger to her lips.
“We won’t speak of it again,” he said, and she could only nod again in response.
To her slight disappointment, aware that their driver was watching Erik kissed her hand instead of her cheek and climbed back inside the cab. He did not tell the man to move off immediately, and Christine knew that he would wait to see that she went inside and reached her apartment safely. With a sigh, she turned and walked quickly up the steps, cursing herself as she went. She should know by now not to probe too deeply into his past; memories of that morning when she snatched away his mask bubbled to the surface, showing her anew his fury, swiftly followed by despair that she should have discovered his secret. That magnificent voice, raised in the most terrible accusations, descending into hoarse sobs fit to break even the strongest heart, filled her ears once more.
Christine let herself into her home, wearily hanging up her cloak. There was so much she had still to learn about the realities of life. She was about to lock up when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside, passing her door once, then twice; opening it a crack she looked out, darting a gaze right and left, but could see no one.
“Erik?” she asked softly, half expecting his familiar shape to detach itself from the shadows.
Nothing happened. The lamp at the end of the passage flickered briefly as though caught in a draught, but there was no sign of anyone nearby. She waited, but the hall remained empty and so she shut the door again, drawing the bolts across, and just stood there for a moment, resting her forehead against the panels.
Perhaps it really was time for bed.
